


what am i doing here

by only_partly



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 1969 Canada Exhibition Game, Locker Room, M/M, Rivals But Make It Sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-02 10:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_partly/pseuds/only_partly
Summary: Sometimes when you read about a Soviet hockey player winking at the Canadian goalie after the Soviets have just won a game 9-3 you just gotta write it.





	what am i doing here

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about this

The entire Soviet team is infuriating. Despite his best efforts Ken still feels like he’s got a blindfold on and both hands tied behind his back against their five-man assault. He can tell his teammates are getting frustrated too; the weight and frequency of their hits is going up, and the obscenities are rising to a level the officials are going to stop ignoring pretty soon.

The Soviets have just scored  _ again _ , with only seconds left to play, and Ken uses the few seconds of reprieve from the shelling to take a much needed drink of water. He’s absolutely dripping sweat, and the level of water he’s going to pour down his throat as soon as this game is over is probably going to break some kind of record.

He settles in his crease and looks out at the faceoff circle. Alexander Maltsev is standing there, big and broad and somehow outskating every single Canadien player without even the decency to look at all winded. Ken grits his teeth and shakes sweat out of his eyes. The man looks like he could go another sixty minutes without so much as an intermission. As Maltsev glides in and takes his place opposite Allen at the dot he looks straight at Ken - and winks.

Ken stares, unable to believe his own eyes for a few precious seconds - during which, naturally, the Red Machine scores again. As Maltsev skates past Ken on his way to the mob of Russian joy at centre ice he leans in and says in rough English, “Maybe you have better luck off ice, Да?”

Ken barely hears the rough attempts at comfort from his teammates or feels the consoling pats to his bucket as he makes his way to the locker room. Surely Maltsev didn’t mean - he probably just meant like, picking up puck bunnies or something. But the wink, and the way he’d lit up the ice all night - no one knows how often Ken thinks about the handies the boys gave each other in juniors, or how he has to keep his eyes carefully averted in the locker room. None of his teammates know about the things he thinks about at night, the images kept safely behind his eyelids as he slowly works a finger or two in a place he knows he’s not ever supposed to think about anything going. There’s no way Maltsev knows.

Despite the litany of reassurance he takes his time in the shower, purposefully waiting to even strip off until most of the boys have gone, nodding at their mumbled farewells and waving them off when they offer to wait for him. He takes his time under the hot water, enjoying the pressure as it washes off what feels like days of sweat instead of only 60 minutes worth. Shit, the way the Soviet players  _ moved _ . And their passes - he’s used to the shot coming from the guy crossing the red line with the puck, not having to defend from four potential shooters at once. He closes his eyes in a wince at the fresh memory of one particular tic tac toe pass he that he bets not even Campbell could’ve stopped.

“Dryden.”

His head snaps up at the thick pronunciation of his name, and he sees Alexander Maltsev leaning against the shower room doorway and smirking at him. He freezes. He should protest, he knows. Curse him out and shove him away from their locker room, but if he’s here, and his team is gone, and for fuck’s sake he’s still just  _ smirking _ at him like he knows exactly what’s going through Ken’s head, and all he ends up doing is standing there like an idiot same as he did the whole damn game.

Maltsev comes closer, picking his way around puddles like he’d deked around Ken’s defensemen, until he’s close enough that he has to tilt his head up to look Ken in the eye.

The height difference isn’t making Ken feel any more secure about his situation. He swallows, hard. “Maltsev.”

Maltsev’s head tilts, and he smiles, one of those ‘I know a joke and you’re not in on it’ smiles all the Russians are so good at, and reaches one hand up to pet slowly down Ken’s side, like he’s gentling a nervous animal. “For this, I think you call me Sasha,” he says.

Ken thinks he should probably say something about now. Instead he just watches as Sasha’s other hand comes up to palm the back of his neck and then tangle in his wet hair.

Sasha pauses, waiting, and Ken, feeling like he’s suspended on the edge of a cliff and is about to go over if he so much as breathes, manages a minute nod. Sasha smiles, the one showing all his teeth, and pulls. 

Later, Ken thinks, he’ll have time to be embarrassed about how easily he goes to his knees for the enemy, and one half a head shorter and a good hundred pounds lighter. Later he can go to church and feel guilty about wanting the things he wants and pretend that the beautiful woman smiling at him across the row is making his blood surge as surely as the man next to her. Later, later, he can even think of his career and his team and his country.

Now is only for feeling the hard edges of the tile underneath his knees and whimpering as Sasha bends over and takes his mouth as easily as he’d taken goals, mouth hot on his and fingers tight in his hair, keeping Ken exactly where he wants him and refusing to give even an inch of control over. Now is for one of those clever hands wrapping around Ken’s length and working him until Ken would beg and plead for more if only he had control of his voice for more than moans and cries that he’ll be ashamed of later. 

Sasha urges him back to his feet, steadying his shaking body with hands tight on his hips and swallows his cries and then, sinking to his knees in turn, his cock. Ken slams his head back into the shower wall in an effort not to shame himself by spilling himself then and there, but dancing brown eyes meet his as soon as he glances down, and Sasha’s redoubled efforts and skillful tongue doing things Ken has hardly dared to dream of end in him lasting only a scant handful more minutes before he’s spilling into Sasha’s mouth. 

The other man straightens, spitting his mouthful of Ken’s release towards the shower drain, and then his mouth is back on Ken’s, greedy, as though every second without it was a goal in the back of his own team’s net. One hand resumes his earlier stroking down Ken’s side, and perhaps he needs the gentling at the rate his heart is pounding, but the other fumbles for something behind them and then wet fingers are at his - his - at his hole, still gentle, but insistent. He moans into Sasha’s mouth, pressing back against the searching fingers.

If he’s going to sin, he might as well feel the full weight of damnation. There’s some sort of slick substance on Sasha’s fingers - the soap, maybe? - and one finger goes in easily. Perhaps easy enough to reveal how often he touches himself, wishing for this exact thing, and it’s not long before there are three fingers in him, stretching him wide, and all the while Sasha’s mouth is on him, on his neck and chest and leaving small marks all the way down one side and the opposite hip, as though Sasha wants to mark his body as thoroughly as he had his goal an hour before. 

Ken sighs into the side of Sasha’s neck, his cock responding eagerly to the constant press of fingers inside him, and Sasha chuckles. “You like so much?” He asks, the line of his own cock against Ken’s stomach making his own interest clear.

“Sasha,” Ken breathes in response, fumbling one hand down to stroke the other’s cock and meeting smiling brown eyes, “Please.”

“Taken away you English,” Sasha teases, as though now that anything has been said he intends to use the full breadth of his own vocabulary, “Russian mouth, fingers so good? Best at hockey, best at score goal, best at -” he breaks off, sucking hard on the pale nipple in front of him and smiling at the resulting gasp. “ - and best at fuck. You see.”

“Yes,” Ken pants, “Yes, Sasha, please, give it to me.”

He didn’t exactly need any more convincing about the superiority of at least one Russian’s sexual abilities, but Sasha’s performance leaves him wondering if perhaps the man simply isn’t a man at all and is instead the son of a god or at the very least has divine blood in him. He’s played an entire game, scored four of the seven goals, already given him at least one orgasm, and now he’s working him competently and swiftly to another. 

Sasha must have at least four hands, is all he can think, from where he’s dazedly bracing himself against the wall. It’s the only logical explanation for how his hands can be at once on Ken’s cock, pressing bruises into his hips, tugging at his nipples, and tangled in his hair all at the same time. Under such an onslaught of sensation, it’s no wonder he lasts only a little longer than last time before he’s crying out again in release. He almost slips, the shower floor turning treacherous as ice beneath him, but Sasha catches him and pulls him flush against him as he thrusts twice more and then comes with nothing louder than a quiet groan in Ken’s ear.

Ken doesn’t look back as Sasha eases out of him, wondering if he will leave as quietly as he came and this will be the end of it, but almost at once Sasha puts paid to that idea by wrapping one arm about his waist and reaching past him with the other to shut off the water, only lukewarm by now. 

“Come, Kenny,” Sasha says, sounding more gentle than he has the past hour, “You need, what is, вода. Drink.”

Since he feels as though his knees are going to give way any moment and Sasha is apparently a superhuman Adonis, he lets him take most of his weight as he’s led over to a bench and slowly lowered down to it. Sasha keeps one hand on the back of his head, almost cradling it, as he holds up a water bottle. “Drink,” he says ago.

Obediently, Ken drinks. Once he starts he realises how thirsty he is and gratefully gulps down the rest of the bottle as fast as Sasha will let him. When he surfaces from it, gasping, he sees Sasha looking at him, an expression in his eyes he can’t parse.

“Thank you.” Ken says.

“For drink or for fuck?” Sasha asks, and now the look in his eyes is all laughter. 

“For -” Ken blushes. “I mean, for both, I guess.” He looks down at his hands in his lap for a second, not wanting to see the expression as he asks, “Did I - how did you know? About me?”

“Not know.” Sasha puts two fingers to his chin and lifts it, and his voice is serious. “Maybe you tell coach and I lose hockey. Lose everything. But I see cute goalie, try so hard against Russian Machine, and I think. Maybe even if not like fuck me, not tell.”

Ken knows he’s flushing brick red by now, but he can’t help it. Cute isn’t - girls are cute, or puppies. Little kids on skates for the first time. He’s six four and two hundred pounds. He’s not  _ cute _ . But even if Sasha’s mocking him, it - feels kinda nice. Except that Sasha still looks serious, not mocking at all.

“So now what?” He asks, hating his voice for cracking in the middle of the question.

“Now,” Sasha leans back, broad shoulders leaning against the cinderblock wall as he stretches. “I have time before team gets on bus. They go celebrate. I think maybe, we put on clothes, go to hotel room, and take clothes off. Да?”

“Да. Yes.”

“See?” Sasha leans in, both hands fitting easily back on Ken’s hips and mouth an open temptation a breath away, “I tell you, better luck off ice.”

**Author's Note:**

> so Alexander Maltsev really did wink at Ken Dryden from the faceoff circle as the Russians were about to win 9-3 and Ken Dryden really did describe Alexander Maltsev as "an Adonis" but the rest is made up.  
(*harry styles voice* or IS it.)
> 
> source comes from the amazing The Red Machine: the Soviet Quest to Dominate Canada's Game by Lawrence Martin, which I highly recommend despite being only halfway thru it.
> 
> title comes from dryden, who said he remembers bouncing around in his cage with puck after puck pelting him and wondering "what am i doing here".


End file.
